A Pleasure to Fly
by Momento Moriify
Summary: This meager little oneshot tells of the short thoughts of the lovely Annie Cresta. Floating atop the water, as the one she loves wades towards her, her typically tortured mind drifts to the memories of her life with Finnick Odair, and in a few moments of introspection, she recollects all of the good and bad of that which is her life.


Author's Note: In fear of falling victim to the unforgiving wrath of internet fandom, I am under the serve obligation to clearly state that** this moderate little oneshot of mine contains spoilers for both_ Catching Fire_ and _Mockingjay_**, so...beware and stuff. Other than that, reviews/constructive criticism are welcome. I am traditionally completely inept at writing even the most vague of fanfictions, so, be forewarned.

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It was a pleasure to fly.

Annie was weightless, drifting atop the very surface of the water- the high concentration of salt that lied therein keeping her easily afloat. Her long brown curls spread out in wisps about her, framing her face in a very halo-esque manner.

It was a pleasure to fly.

For these few, small moments of solitude and silence, she could make mute the tongues of the voices screaming in her head, make blind her darting eyes which looked only at the decapitated, emaciated body of her fellow District Four tribute, and make deaf her ears which heard only those haunting sounds of a bitter wind. For now, for the one sacred moment, her mind was at peace.

And then that moment ended.

Finnick had appeared on the shore, his expression indistinguishable, but not pleasant, and began to wade in the water towards her.

When she was with Finnick Odair, her mind felt the same sort of serenity that it now experienced. Something in his very countenance kept at bay what the healers in the Capitol had labeled a very severe case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Something in his touch made every pore of her skin tremble to such a degree that her mind could focus on nothing else. And his soft, beautiful, and very befitting sea green eyes looked upon her with such gentleness that inhibitions and fears became nonexistence.

Annie and Finnick had known each other for the majority of their young lives. They spotted each other when there was no one else around to see, and their gazes remained strong when people came rushing in. That was always as it was with those two. Inseparable in their deep rooted friendship which sat constantly on the precipice of being so much more than just, they had grown up, together, in neighboring houses and supported each other through all of life's adversities and grievances.

Annie remembered in that moment, as Finnick drew every nearer, when her Finn had been reaped for the 65th Hunger Games. At 14, he'd taken the news of his reaping with the pride and dignity of any adult- a stark contrast to Annie, whom found herself drowning in grief in and fear. Annie herself could not bring herself to watch those games. Ample times, she'd managed to escape the nightly viewings, and when watching became mandatory, she'd kept her eyes shut. Once, she caught the gleam in his eyes when a silver parachute carrying a trident-shaped package practically fell into his open hands. _He_ knew right then that he had won. But, despite Finnick's assured glance at the audience through the television (a glance which Annie was positive was intended just for her, to calm her nerves,) she could not allow herself to hope. When Finnick returned, a hero adored by all of the Capitol, she managed an exhale she'd been hoarding since his name had first been called. Her Finn had come home to her. His psyche was scarred and frazzled, but at his core, where their friendship was kept, he was the same. And that was all that mattered.

Even when Finnick violently refused to talk about what had transpired through the games, even when he grew older and was called away on "Capitol Business"(such business always involving beautiful Capitol Women), even when he stood in front of the camera's and flirtatiously smiled, only exacerbating his reputation as a sex symbol, Annie turned inwardly and smiled. She smiled because Finn was still there. She smiled because, for her, he was himself- a goofy, witty, and all around kindhearted fishmonger from District Four- her best friend.

From nowhere, she let lose a short jolt of laughter. She laughed because it was funny. It was funny that she remembered the events of_ his_ reaping more than those of her own.

All she remembered from the day of reaping for the 70th Hunger Games- and all the days that would come to pass thereafter- were nothing more elaborate than blurs of monochromatic grays flashing one after the other in indistinguishable events. Her name, then standing, then clapping, then sitting, then crying, then train, then interview, then more crying, then platform, then….soft.

She could make little sense of it all. She knew only that she had not been the one crying, and that instead of her stylist standing before her in the loading room, moments before she entered the arena, it had been her mentor. But who was her mentor? He was familiar….sea green eyes. And the softness….though it was dark and cold in the recesses of her mind, the moment before her memory turned blank in the arena, she remembered a sort of warmth radiating from her lips. But what could have caused such a phenomena?

Above all, she remembered a promise. A promise whispered in Finnick's voice, but with a tone so foreign to his mouth, that Annie could barely place it. Fear. In a quick, fearful whisper, Finnick had promised to keep her alive.

Over the years, she'd managed to fill in the memories through the television recaps of her games- she was able to name the beheaded boy in her mind as her fellow tribute, able to place the screaming as her own. She had her suspicions that Finnick had been behind the flooding of the arena, but he'd never said anything to confirm it.

Though she was broken, Finnick had meticulously and with great care, picked up the pieces for Annie to assemble, and together, neighbors once more in the Victor's Village, they slowly had put themselves back together.

But today, floating on the water, the calm of her mind and the carefully glued fragments of her spirit came to a halt.

Finnick stood before her, tall for his age, but still barley able to keep his head above the water. Annie allowed herself to drift to her feet and lift the boy into her arms. Her son had been named for his father for a reason- he was practically a carbon copy of Finnick Odair; the same tuft of sandy hair, the same green eyes, the same beautiful features, and the same ability to free Annie from the shadows of herself.

"Finn, what did I tell you about walking out so far. What if a current would have come and knocked you over?" she scolded gently, her voice, devoid of anger, contrasting her words.

"Mother, I have a question." The boy of six years asked. He spoke clearly and articulately, one of the few traits he'd picked up from his frail mother. "Why is there a statue of daddy in the middle of town?"

Annie always knew that one day soon, her son, smart as he was, would put two and two together to realize that the man in the wedding portraits that hung in their home, and the bronze statue of the man in the middle of the previous District Four were, in fact, the same person.

All at once, the memories of the news from Finnick's death, and all foul events leading up prior to it, rushed her with such intensity that it almost knocked her to her feet. The evils of her mind threatened to encroach in on her and destroy all which she had.

But no, she couldn't lose it. Not here, not now in front of her and Finnick's son.

"That's a very good question," she managed, her voice small but quiet. "Your daddy has a statue because he was a hero. He helped win us our freedom."

"You mean daddy fought the bad guys?" he asked, looking up at his mother with the awe only a child could conjure.

"Daddy fought the bad guys, and he won." Annie confirmed, planting a kiss on her son's head as her strength returned to her. She had the courage to be strong. Finnick had won. Though his life was one of the many lost in that final revolt against the capitol, the sum of their parts had been greater than that of the whole of their individuality, and that alone had assured the rebel victory. Finnick was a hero, Finnick was strong. And so was Annie. She could not afford fear or suffering in this world of light and peace. So her strength came back to her, just as quickly as it had abandoned her.

Content with her answer, and fascinated with the very idea of being the son of a hero, the young Finnick held onto his mother as she carried him back to shore, back to the horizon where they, the mother father and son, would all walk into the promise and exclaimed hope of the canvas shore.


End file.
